


John Watson's Abominable Bride

by lunaraindrop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Are oranges evil?, But the dress is used, Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Canon divergence the abominable bride, Crossdressing, Evil Mary Morstan, First Kiss, M/M, Ruined wedding, This will make you hate oranges, Too many Oranges, Well not really, What if Sherlock did not come back until The Sign of Three, you will see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 04:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15965096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaraindrop/pseuds/lunaraindrop
Summary: What if Sherlock did no come back during TEH? What if he came back later? What if he crashed John Watson's wedding day? What if the wedding was a part of the plot all along? What is our favorite drama queen to do? Will John be happy to see him?





	John Watson's Abominable Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! I am new to writing in the Sherlock fandom. I had a dream about TAB, but Sherlock was running around in the dress. I decided to brainstorm why Sherlock would be in a Victoria wedding dress. This is what came of it. I am so sorry. Never give me caffeine.

 

* * *

In a cheery chapel nestled between a babbling brook and an orangery in Bristol, seventy-six guests gathered to celebrate the promise of a union. Made of limestone and dark cherry wood, the small sanctuary was a florist’s dream. Hydrangeas, mock oranges, and lilacs were bursting from every crevasse, nook, and cranny. The biggest display was in a vase, emitting a sweet perfume to those standing by the alter. Like the auroral, pulpy fruit grown on the grounds, the sunlight poured effervescently into the chamber through the window planes.

John glanced around from his standing point. All of it was just so…sweet. The flowers, the smells, the hushed titters from the crowd. It was all just so sweet.

John frowned.

Too sweet.

Like the sugary sludge that Americans like to call “Southern iced tea”. Why Mary liked it, he had no clue.

His stomach made itself known for the hundredth time that day. When Greg had treated him to breakfast that morning, he had forgone the orange juice and complementary mimosas offered to him. Fearing the citric acid would tear his stomach to bits, and the possibility of the juice/champagne mixture coming out to rudely greet his new bride, John settled for a strong cuppa and some toast with jam and honey.

_Honey_

John’s restless gut rumbled.

He could always stomach some honey.

He loved honey. While thick and sugary, it also had a healthy tang to it. Honey also had many medicinal purposes, or so he had learned from…somewhere. A long time ago.

Unlike oranges, honey lacked the acid that could tear him apart.

When he and Mary tried wedding cake samples, he had liked a dense, dark chocolate cake sweetened with ripe raspberries and honey. Mary found it too rich and bitter, favoring a heavenly orange chiffon with vanilla buttercream.

They got the heavenly orange chiffon with vanilla buttercream.

Anything for Mary. She was the bride, after all.

Fiddling with his braces, John tried to make the tremor of his hand go away.

_It is just nerves._  He told himself.  _This is your wedding day! You are allowed to be a little nervous._

Lestrade tapped him on the shoulder, eyes and brow shifted in concern. John waved him away with a smile. The man had really outdone himself with his best man duties. Even though they both knew that he was second choice in John’s heart for the job, he took the reins with gusto. The stag-do was probably the most bachelorly fun he had had since… _before_. Just he and some blokes, going from a pub crawl to a rather ritzy strip club.

It was also a sober Greg that held a drunkenly sobbing John on his sitting room floor. Thankfully it was after everyone went home for the night. He had promised to take what confessions John had made that night to his grave.

John cleared his throat.

_None of that._

Shifting his increasingly aching leg, John tried to discreetly check his watch. Mary was taking her sweet time getting ready. She insisted that she wanted to put the dress on herself after hair and makeup. Having found the dress in a vintage clothing store by herself, she wanted the gown to be a surprise to all. Even Janine, her maid of honor, would not catch a single glimpse of this dress until Mary walked down the aisle.

They were supposed to start the processional half an hour ago. The guests were just beginning to show restlessness.

There was something that his gran had said at Harry’s wedding.

_“A bride is never late, Johnny! The guests are just early. Since there are two of them, the guests can be extra early!”_

She had said that when both Harry and Clara were over an hour late to the courthouse. (They found out later that they had a last-minute shag, and lost track of time.)

Half an hour was nothing compared to Harry’s record. It was Mary’s wedding day. Brides dreamed of this day, or so he had been told. It would make sense that she would want every detail to be perfect.    

He looked towards the back of the church. The bulky antiquated doors stayed securely shut.  

Mary was eager for this wedding. No chance that she would not pull a runner.

His leg throbbed again.

Yes,  _Mary_  was not the one to worry about, and that made him feel  _so_  guilty.

He was about to marry a beautiful woman. They had a nice flat in the suburbs. He had a secure job as a GP in a surgery. All they needed was a picket fence and a dog, and they would have it all.

He nodded to himself and lifted his chin. Yes, this was the dream. All he strived for lead to this quaint, sweet day.

_“But do you feel alive? Is **this**  what you are living for?” _A familiar baritone voice whispered in his head.

As he had done many times since that awful day, John swallowed, stood up straighter, and ignored that voice. His wedding day was meant to be a happy occasion, not a haunted one.

As he finished that thought, the doors finally opened. The guests gasped in delight.

The bridesmaids started to filter in one by one in their purple ( _“Really John, they’re lilac!”)_ dresses. Janine glided with something like a smug grace, like a purebred cat that been spoon-fed cream on a silk pillow.

He had never been too fond of Janine.

As she made her way to the alter, she looked at the crowd with an assessing eye. Her gaze would delicately land on a man here or there, smirk ever in place.  John did not need to be a master of deduction to know that she was on the prowl.

Finally, the moment of truth. The music changed to play the Pachelbel. The guests stood up in anticipation.

John put on a cheerful smile.

_Right then. Here we go._

The crowd hushed as the bride finally came into sight.

It was like an eerie fog on the Moor rolled into the sunny sanctuary. A Gothic romance novel’s pages bled from their bindings to drown Snow White’s singing animal friends.

This…was _not_ what John expected.

He blinked.

Mary had said that the dress had lace and a vintage feel to it.

Medically keen sapphire eyes darted to the swath of crinkled cloth draped from hip to hip.

  _Vintage indeed._

Mary always seemed to favor the 1920's for her more fancy clothes, such as the dress she wore when they got engaged. He half expected his her to sport finger-waves and a white beaded Flapper frock. This dress was more of a…Victorian style gown.

Highly unusual.

While it did not look bad, it did seem a little more conservative and posher than what he knew Mary to like. Looking over and witnessing Janine’s badly concealed incredulity, he could tell he was not the only one to think so.   

Made of cream coloured satin and lace, the dress covered his bride from neck to toe. Even obstructed by the Cathedral long veil, John could tell the dress had a high collar. Despite having what looked like a corseted bodice, the dress did not really accentuate her curves. While the corset was forgiving in that it flared out at the hips, the bodice made her chest look almost… flat? It didn't appear to be tightly done up though, so it was a strange optical illusion. Did she have trouble lacing it up by herself? Still, if she liked it, he would not say a word.

As the music faded when his bride made it to the alter, she came to stand next to John.

And towered over him.

John closed his fist as he tried to hide his tightening jaw behind a smile.

_Damn those heels!_

Mary had insisted on wearing these designer high heels that she got on sale. Said they were her “something blue”. Wearing them, she was at least a head taller than him.

_Keep it together Watson_ , he thought to himself. _Just get through this. Let her be happy, and it be over and done with. After this you can have some of that bloody cake and have a nice sit down._

Only, things did not seem to be going to plan. Mary was deviating from the carefully practiced plan from the rehearsal. For one thing Mary’s bouquet did not match the rest of the flowers surrounding them. Not being an expert on foliage, John could only make out that the bouquet had white roses…ivy…and forget-me-nots? He didn’t even think that Mary liked roses…

Janine was supposed to take Mary’s bouquet and hold it for her during the service. When Janine made to take the bouquet, Mary resisted handing her flowers over. Confused, Janine held out her hand again for them, only for Mary to shake her veiled head and all but bury her hands into the bouquet. Shrugging, Janine let her keep them.

As the preacher went on, Mary quietly reached for a small white flower in the bouquet. Silently she pushed the flower into John's hand. Looking at it, he realized it was not a flower at all.

It was a piece of paper, origami folded to look like a flower.

John opened his mouth to ask, but just as quickly clicked his jaw shut. They were in the middle of a wedding. If he talked it would interrupt the ceremony. Mary must have known this when she hid the paper.

Carefully and discretely unfolding the paper flower, John realized there was writing scrawled on it. It was a note! When he got it all unfolded, John had to squint to see the tiny writing. When he realized what was written, his blood ran cold.

 

**Vatican Cameos**

 

Trying his best not to react, John stiffened his spine, physically swallowed his panic, and stood at attention.

Only two people in the world knew that code, and he was one of them. The other was _dead_.

Or was supposed to be at least...

Someone was about to die, that was for sure. But who?

With a strange combination of a sinking feeling and a bubbling of elation, John glanced down at the hands of his beloved. They were still obscured by the flowers. Trying to go for inconspicuous as possible, John took the closest hand in his own. If it had been Mary's hand, it would have been small and a little dry from her bread making hobby.

But no.

These were not the small hands of a woman with a propensity for baking.

These hands were large, larger than his own.

While not as smooth as they used to be, John could tell the owner still used expensive hand creams to make his skin so soft.

He trailed fingertips across familiar flesh. Callouses made by playing the violin so beautifully he could almost cry adored this skin. John knew this hand better than he knew his own.

He got his miracle, standing right next to him.

He just did not expect it to show up dressed in Victorian drag.

At that moment he knew he should care where Mary was, and be so so so angry at this undead madman for lying for two years.

Oh, and ruining his wedding.

Instead he felt happy tears burning the corners of his eyes, as the adrenaline pumped through his veins. Someone *was* about to die, after all.

The game was on, and his partner had finally showed up.

"You are so, so dead." John whispered toward his veiled companion.

Squeezing his hand, the veil turned towards John's ear.

"Not. Dead. Not anymore." A deep, rich voice rolled out like a distant thunderclap.

Even figuring out who the hand belonged to still did not prepare him for hearing the real voice again.

Something low in his belly melted as the hair on his arms stood at electrical, magnetic attention.

"Yes, clearly, which by God you **will** explain to me later. Now, who is going to die?"

Before the veiled one could speak, a red dot shining with precision from the window landed on John's chest. In a split second, the larger hand gripping his yanked both of them backwards to the floor. The large flower vase shattered into a thousand pieces.

The guests screamed as Lestrade told everyone to get down.

On the ground, John drew his gun and crouched in defense. He turned at the insistent hand tugging at his own. They had yet to let each other go.

Sherlock, in a fit of perfect drama, unveiled himself. Hypnotic light eyes bore into his own, taking John’s very breath from his lungs. “No one, John. No one is going to die today!" he growled. Still clasping one hand in a death grip he used his other to yank at John's braces. The earth around them shattered like the vase, as Sherlock fervently, ardently claimed his blogger in a kiss. Letting go much too quickly, Sherlock gasped across John’s aching mouth. "That…was good. So very good, John.”

John ghosted his lips across Sherlock’s.

“I’ll show you good, you mad man.”

The veil was brutally ripped from the false bride’s head. Short, sure fingers threaded through dark silky curls as the frantic mouth found silky lips again. The detective surrendered immediately to the plunder with a moan, arms cradling the would-be groom in his arms. This made John advance even more, using the tip of his tongue to open eager untested lips. For the blip of a few seconds Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. The shattered world only held the two of them, together again at last. In this strange cocoon, Sherlock Holmes kissed with a passion that was as violent as it was heartbreaking. He grabbed and pulled John closer and closer to his satin covered body. Every time their mouths sipped at air, Sherlock sobbed with hushed desperation. In a language all his own, Sherlock spoke of agony and loss, fear and rage, and hope and all-consuming love, all by just using one word.

“John.”

Of course, reality had to crash back in.

“Uhh, Sherlock, while I am quite chuffed that you’re not dead, might want to explain to me why you are in a dress, and why we are getting shot at?!”

* * *

kudos and comments= love

 


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